The Mutual Admiration Society(35)
“What do you mean I should leave the real detective work to you?” she says. From running around in the Indian summer heat and all the chocolate kisses Birdie has stuffed in her mouth, she looks like a fugitive who just got done robbing Dalinsky’s Drugstore’s candy aisle. “You always tell me that we’re partners in crime.”
“We are partners in crime. It’s just that . . .”
Shoot.
Even during a wild streak, a time when my sister’s delicate feelings are not as breakable as they usually are, I still have to be careful to put her down gently.
“I wish what you found was a clue. I really do, but . . .” I point at the chain she found in the leaf pile that’s dangling from her finger. “This is just one of those St. Christopher medals visitors leave on the gravestones so their loved ones have a safe trip to the Great Beyond.” Birdie knows that. She just forgot, that’s all. “Please don’t feel bad. We can’t all be as excellent at detecting as I am. Many are called, but few are chosen.” I switch gears and bring up what I tried to tell her before she found this so-called clue, which is something she really is good at. “So like I said, how about we forget all about this stupid kidnapping and murdering business, go grab Charlie, get those chocolate-covered cherries, say hi to Daddy, and then the three of us can head up to the Milky Way. Yum-yum.”
I’m so sure my little chowhound cannot resist that offer that I don’t even wait for her answer. I start off toward the weeping willow tree, but before I can go two full steps, Birdie grabs on to my hair and yanks me to a stop.
“You’re wrong, Tessie. This medal isn’t the kind people leave on tombstones so their loved ones have a safe trip to the Great Beyond,” she announces to my back like she is the end-all and be-all on the subject of metal-medal identification.
“Yeah, it is!” I’m twisting like a fish on the end of a line, but she’s got her fingers hooked around my ponytail but good.
“No, it’s not!”
“Is, too!”
“Is not!”
“Let go of me, for crissakes!” I shout.
When she loosens her grip, I spin around and automatically go into the boxing stance my Golden Gloves champion father taught me to go into if anybody dares to put their hands on me—up on my toes, fists held high, and ready to throw the first punch. But just as I’m about to clean my little cuckoo’s clock, it hits me that no matter how mad I am at this kid who may have the footwork of Marciano and the strength of new world heavyweight champ Floyd Patterson, when it gets down to it, Birdie Finley is a featherweight and it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Daddy wouldn’t like that.
“Okay, fine.” I drop my hands back to my sides, rock back on my heels, and say exactly as 100% ticked off as I feel, “Why isn’t the medal you found in the leaf pile one of those have-a-safe-trip-to-the-Great-Beyond medals, Birdbrain?”
She doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve lost my temper and called her that mean name, because if she had, she would’ve gotten that crushed look on her face and given in to me, not thrown back her shoulders and cleared her throat like she’s a contestant on her favorite quiz show who’s about to give the answer to the big prize package question of the day. Ha! The only game show this twerp could ever win is Queen for a Day. The audience would pin the applause meter after they heard her sob story. Hmmm. Maybe I should put on my TO-DO list: Write to master of ceremonies Mr. Jack Bailey and enter Birdie on his show. Daddy never got around to fixing ours, so we really could use a new washing machine, and I think the winner gets to keep the mink cape they wear at the end of the show and that would be a big help if our heat gets turned off, and Birdie could give the shiny crown to Louise as one of her special gifts and maybe that’d make our mother love her a lot more than she does.
“Well, Tessie,” my sister answers, so snooty, “this is a have-a-safe-trip-to-the-Great-Beyond medal, but not the kind grievers leave anymore on the gravestones of their loved ones.” She holds it up higher so I can take another gander at it. “I guess you musta forgot that they started leaving the cruddy dime store medals after kids started stealin’ the really nice ones on dares.” Birdie swings what she found into the palm of her hand and holds it about three inches away from my face with one of her irresistible smiles that the army could use to make enemies surrender, that’s how bad it can bring me to my knees. (No joke.) “I think this medal I found is made out of real gold, but, of course, far be it from me to second-guess an expert such as yourself.”
If it sounds like she knows what she’s talking about, it just so happens that this time she does. Times two.
#1: Kids were sneaking into Holy Cross and stealing the real gold medals in the middle of the night and they don’t do that anymore and I’ll never, ever forgive them.
After watching those thieves tippy-toeing out of the cemetery from our bedroom window, the Finley sisters would track them down and start charging them a pretty penny to keep our pie holes shut. Believe me, if there weren’t so many of them, and if some of them kids weren’t stealing the medals on dares they were forced into by my confidential informant, Kitten Jablonski, I’d put ’em all on my SHIT LIST.
#2: Birdie might know a lot about Atomic Fireballs to Wax Bottles and every candy in between, but I know what I’m talking about when it comes to jewelry.